


Fetters of Iron

by MovesLikeBucky



Series: 12 Days of Blasphemy 2020 [5]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, Anal Fingering, Blindfolds, Collars, Coming Untouched, Gentle Dom Aziraphale (Good Omens), M/M, Predicament Bondage, Sensory Deprivation, Sex Toys, Sub Crowley (Good Omens), Teasing, headphones, shackles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:34:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28410069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MovesLikeBucky/pseuds/MovesLikeBucky
Summary: The breeze stops, windows closed once again.  Crowley has the distinct feeling of being appraised.  Studied and watched.  He straightens his back, letting the ache sink into his spine, roll over his shoulders like a wave on the ocean.  He lets out a hiss, feels his tongue go forked whether he wants it to or not.With his tongue forked, Crowley can better smell the air.  The sharp tang of book dust, the spice of vetiver from Aziraphale’s aftershave.  He can smell the chemical of the leather polish on Aziraphale’s oxfords, can taste the tang that the iron of his shackles leaves in the air.  His vision may be dark, but his remaining senses paint a vivid picture all the same.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: 12 Days of Blasphemy 2020 [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2073915
Comments: 18
Kudos: 127
Collections: 12 Days of Blasphemy 2020, Top Aziraphale Recs





	Fetters of Iron

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vgersix](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vgersix/gifts).



> Back with Day 5! “To bind their kings with chains, and their nobles with fetters of iron;” (Psalms 149:8)
> 
> I might have taken fetters of iron very literally >.>;;
> 
> So this one is a gift for vgersix! Eljay I'm so glad I got to know you better this year and I really hope it's not weird that I gifted you a bondage fic xD
> 
> Also random fun fact for everyone! The album Crowley is listening to is The Velvet Underground and Nico (go listen to Venus in Furs if you haven’t >_>)

The air in the flat is cold on Crowley’s bare skin. He breathes in deep and steady, in for five and then out for five, keeping steady and keeping still. Aziraphale told him to stay still, so he does.

His neck is starting to hurt, held fast and weighed down by the iron collar. He can’t see through the miraculously dark blindfold covering his eyes. He can’t hear either, not with the large noise-cancelling headphones perched on his ears, Lou Reed droning on about a mistress and shiny leather boots. The bar holding his feet apart is stiff and unyielding, and the chain linking the collar to his wrists clinks with every breath. His wrists, for their part, are shackled behind his back, fetters of iron keeping his elbows bent. His bones feel stiff, held in positions that they don’t want to stay in. It’s not painful, just a dull ache as he waits.

The song ends and the next one starts. Shuffle and repeat, not their usual order, another thing to mess with his sense of time. He doesn’t know how long he’s been standing here, only that he’s meant to be still. He doesn’t know where Aziraphale is. He could be in the bedroom with him, could be in the kitchen or the plant room. Could be on the moon for all Crowley knows. But that’s part of the game.

He breathes in, he breathes out.

The atmosphere in the room shifts, a slight chill through the air; someone just opened a door. 

“Aziraphale?” He says to the space, he gets no response. Wouldn’t be able to hear even if he did, not over the song playing.

_Baby don’t you holler, darlin’ don’t you bawl and shout._

The air shifts again, the smell of the city wafting through to him. The windows must be open. The combination of crisp autumn air and the chill of the room make Crowley shiver, chains jingling like bells when he does. The breeze caresses his shoulder like a lover, brushes over his chin with a soft and light touch, flows past his stomach like possessive arms cradling him.

There’s a brush of something soft against his thigh, a trailing and winding tickle. Purposeful in it’s journey. It feels like a feather, soft and fibrous, tickling him as it’s dragged across his balls, up the shaft of his straining hard cock. Too light to do anything, too heavy to ignore. Crowley can’t stop the keening noise that escapes his throat.

The feather moves higher, up the planes of his stomach, swipes over each of his nipples. His cock pulses at this teasing touch. It goes higher still, barely kisses the skin under the collar as it’s brought around to the nape of his neck. The teasing touch moves slowly down his spine to where his wrists are bound, then up one arm and back down the other, before traveling the length of left leg to the floor.

Soft fingers pry at his hands where they ball into fists, and he opens for them. The feather is pressed into his palm, and his fingers curled around it. A silent instruction that he hears loud and clear despite the headphones. Drop the feather, the scene stops. The shackles and the chains disappear and he’ll be scooped up into angelic arms and cuddled within an inch of his life.

Maybe later, right now, he wants the ache.

The breeze stops, windows closed once again. Crowley has the distinct feeling of being appraised. Studied and watched. He straightens his back, letting the ache sink into his spine, roll over his shoulders like a wave on the ocean. He lets out a hiss, feels his tongue go forked whether he wants it to or not.

With his tongue forked, Crowley can better smell the air. The sharp tang of book dust, the spice of vetiver from Aziraphale’s aftershave. He can smell the chemical of the leather polish on Aziraphale’s oxfords, can taste the tang that the iron of his shackles leaves in the air. His vision may be dark, but his remaining senses paint a vivid picture all the same. 

There’s a puff of warmth on the shell of his ear where it peaks out from under the headphones. It’s deliberate, heavier than a breath should be. Another sensation for Aziraphale to tease him with. It happens again, on his clavicle this time, close enough Crowley could swear he felt the brush of lips. Once more, over one of his nipples. He tries to arch his back at this, but is held fast by his restraints, completely reliant on Aziraphale’s whims.

The next puff of breath is directed at the head of his cock, and Crowley can’t stop the broken cry that falls from him at the sensation. There’s a second and a third, Crowley’s cock twitching in response to each. He can feel a bead of precome dribble from the tip, roll down the underside of his length.

“Aziraphale, please,” he begs for a response that would be drowned out by the music.

_There’s always someone around you who will call…it’s nothing at all._

There is no answer, Crowley knew there wouldn’t be, at least not one that he would be able to hear. He breathes again, tries to settle himself down before he comes on nothing but teasing feathers and puffs of air.

A strong and steady hand presses into the base of his spine, between his arms. Aziraphale firmly strokes his hand up Crowley’s spine, his method of response. _I’m here, you’re doing so well._ Crowley doesn’t need to hear him say it to find the intent, it bleeds through Aziraphale’s fingers, works its way under his skin and into his heart. Voiceless and unheard praise, here in this room that has become _theirs_ instead of _his_. 

Aziraphale’s hand retraces its path down Crowley’s spine, until both hands light firmly on Crowley’s slight buttocks, kneading at him softly, a bit of comfort to soothe the pain of contortion. The hands continue, a firm press along his thighs, behind his knees, and down his calves. Crowley shivers under the attention, his muscles shudder as Aziraphale’s hands trace their path back up to his arse.

His cheeks are spread, just enough that Aziraphale can push one slick finger inside of him. Crowley curses under his breath as he grinds down, wanting more, wanting to be _filled_ with Aziraphale. The angel is slow in his benediction, working him open at a glacial pace while Crowley twitches and moans. His cock is dribbling faster now, he can feel the precome dripping from the tip. He’s achingly close, barely having been touched. 

Aziraphale works in a second finger and Crowley cries out, a broken and strangled thing as Aziraphale pushes everywhere but his prostate, denying him that last bit of stimulation that will see him over the edge.

All at once, Aziraphale’s fingers are gone. Crowley is ashamed of the sob that racks him, but he can’t bring himself to hide it. He’s flayed open and raw, here for Aziraphale’s scrutinizing gaze. He needs this, sometimes. Needs to push past his anxieties, let himself be vulnerable and at Aziraphale’s mercies. And Aziraphale is always merciful.

Something smooth and metallic is positioned at his entrance, it’s pushed in past his rim, Crowley knows the shape well. A remote control plug they’ve used in the past, warmed by Aziraphale’s hands. He could cry out in relief, given half the mind, filled again and aching all over. As he breathes a sigh of relief, the toy clicks on. It rubs against his prostate, the vibrations reverberating through him like an electric shock. 

His hips jump forward, away from the motion, but the toy stays put. Aziraphale’s hands grip his hips, stilling his motion. Aziraphale squeezes, an order. _Stay still,_ said without words.

Crowley tries to keep himself from twitching, finds it difficult with how on edge he is. A light and teasing touch trails down his chest; another feather, tickling and teasing at him again. He keens low in his throat, feels the scales that start to manifest under the collar. They’re cold as the spread up to his temple and down the line of his shoulder; all the way to the hollow of his throat. He can’t control them, not when he’s like this.

The feather coasts lower, takes a detour for his nipple, continues down across his naval, down, down, down. Aziraphale flicks the feather over the tip of his cock at the same moment he increases the speed on the toy, now buzzing against Crowley’s prostate at a punishing pace. Aziraphale strokes the feather along the underside of his cock, around the tip and back down again. Tantalizing, teasing, too much.

One of Aziraphale’s hands cups his face, pushes back into his hair and pushes one ear of the headphones off.

“Come for me, my darling,” are the first words outside of the album that Crowley hears, and come he does. Spilling out untouched, splattering Aziraphale’s clothes as Aziraphale kisses his cheek. Crowley feels his fangs elongate as he screams, his claws, too. The feather in his hand is shredded by the time he’s been worked through his orgasm, spent but still held up by his collar, shackles, and chains.

“Darling boy, so good for me," Aziraphale shuts the toy off, eases it out of him. He snaps and the shackles and collar fall away, taking the chains with them. The spreader bar dissolves and Crowley slumps forward into Aziraphale’s waiting arms. Aziraphale carries him over to the bed, warm washcloth and basin already waiting there for them. His angel really does think of everything. He lays Crowley on the bed before undoing the blindfold.

Crowley sinks down onto the duvet, letting Aziraphale take care of him and clean him up. He stills the angel’s movements when he goes to heal the bruises from the shackles.

“No, leave them for a while, I want to see them…”

It’s a small indulgence, but one that Aziraphale allows him. Even after all this time, there’s something about the tangible proof that Aziraphale wants him, that he gets to have this with him, that comforts Crowley.

Aziraphale nods. “Of course, my darling, whatever you want.” He kisses Crowley’s forehead softly, before crossing to the wardrobe to change. Crowley drifts in and out of sleep while Aziraphale changes to his nightclothes, but soon enough he’s back over at the bed. Aziraphale arranges the covers, pulls the duvet up and over the both of them.

“How are you feeling, Crowley?” Aziraphale whispers once Crowley is curled up in his arms, head resting on his chest just to hear the angel’s heartbeat.

Crowley thinks for a moment, what could he say that could encompass how he feels in this very moment? So overwhelmed with love and care and trust, knowing that he can put himself in Aziraphale’s hands and let go of everything else in the world and be taken care of?

“Blessed.” Is what he finally lands on, which earns him a laugh.

“You old serpent,” Aziraphale says as he kisses the top of Crowley’s head, full of fondness and love and gentle affection.

“S’true, been touched by an angel, I have,” Crowley slurs as he burrows in closer, curling himself around Aziraphale like the snake he has always been.

“Well, I suppose you aren’t entirely wrong,” Aziraphale tilts his chin up and kisses his nose, a gesture so disgustingly affectionate that Crowley can’t stand how much he adores it, “Sleep well, my love.”

“Love you, Aziraphale…” Crowley drifts to sleep on a wave of happiness, wrapped in his angel’s arms, safe and warm and so very loved.

  
  



End file.
